


Black Eyes & Blood

by O4amuse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Dead Sam, Demon Dean, First Blade, Future Fic, M/M, Mark of Cain, Post-Season/Series 10 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:07:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4917247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/O4amuse/pseuds/O4amuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam: "I know he pretends that he can ride the Mark out, but you and I know the truth. You know what happens if we don't cure him. We both know where that road ends."</p><p>Castiel: "Black eyes and blood."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Eyes & Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season 10, without the Darkness. 
> 
> What happened if Dean never summoned Death, and the Mark of Cain wasn't removed by Rowena? What happened if Dean lived with it for centuries?

There was a story in the old hunting community - you might have heard it - about Deamon. The unkillable monster who killed other monsters with a piece of bone and didn’t care who got in his way. The man with black eyes in a beautiful face. The stories say Deamon was single-handedly responsible for cleansing New York City of slendermen back in 2251, along with 10% of the human population. He was there killing kumiho when North Korea bombed Canada. They say he’s the one that took down Uncle Sam, when the anthropomorph went genocidally insane. I’m sure you’ve heard other tales.

My mom was a hunter, one of the last. She told me all the stories when I was little. She said that the old lore, the stuff written on paper, called him the Last Deamon or the Lonely Deamon. There’d been hundreds like him once, but when the Hellgates closed Deamon was stuck on the wrong side. She said that’s what made him so dangerous.

  “Anything with nothing to lose or live for, you get out of it’s way,” she said.

I remember the day she stopped telling the stories. She’d been out on a hunt - the first to come up in over a year, and I guess she was a little rusty. She called me from a hospital in Chicago and I flew straight down. I spent the entire trip terrified of how close I’d come to losing her.

Her right leg and most of her right ribs were broken. The doctor said she’d walk with a limp for the rest of her life, and she could count herself lucky to be walking at all.

  “It was him,” she said, when we were alone. “Deamon. I saw him.”

  “He’s really real?”

  “It wasn’t one vampire,” she said, staring straight ahead. “There was a whole nest. They surrounded me. I thought that was it. Then he was there. He killed them. All of them. It was… I’ve never seen anything like it. He laughed the whole time.” She put a hand to her ribs. “He threw me across the room. I was in the middle. Just… in the way. I stayed down. Played dead. At the end he came over and he sniffed at me. Sniffed. Like… I dunno. I kept my eyes closed and prayed he’d leave me alone. Then there was a noise like, like a flock of birds. Crazy. Someone took hold my shoulder. Then I was here.” She looked at me. “I thought he was just a story. Just a story.”

  “It’s okay, mom.” I pulled her to me, rubbing a hand down her tense spine. “It’s okay.”

  She shook her head stiffly and stopped talking.

When I finally got her home I asked if she planned on hunting again. I’d lined up all my arguments against it, how her leg slowed her down, made her vulnerable. How I needed her. But they weren’t necessary.

  “He’s real,” she said and reached for the whisky. “He’ll get them all eventually.”

A few years later I was walking home after work. It was late autumn, when it’s dark by five and the leaves pile up on the sidewalk. The crisp kind of cold that wakes you up with every breath. I don’t remember what I was thinking about but I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t even hear footsteps. There was suddenly a hand over my mouth and a sweet, thick smell that made me choke down into swimming darkness.

I came to in an old tech store, long since abandoned in the forward march of progress. Cables dangled from the ceiling like vines. There was a big apple symbol on one wall and rows of tables covered in dust. My head ached, a steady dull throb off-set by the hot pain of cable ties digging hard into my wrists. I was against a pillar, my arms wrenched backwards behind it. My mouth and throat were so dry it hurt to swallow.

  “Help,” I croaked.

  Footsteps on the concrete floor, making no effort to be subtle. A woman came into view, smiling pleasantly. “No one can hear you. But don’t worry. Help is on the way.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Such an ignorant question from a hunter’s spawn. The important question is what I am. I’m a shapeshifter. The last, in point of fact. My kind have been hunted to extinction. This is just a little payback.”

  “I’m not a hunter,” I choked out, my stomach roiling.

  “Your mother is.” She came closer, pulling a roll of tape from her pocket. “And, retired or not, she has plenty of blood on her hands. She’ll be here soon.”

  “She’ll kill you.”

  “She’ll try,” the shifter agreed calmly. She stopped very close to me and I could smell the rottenness of her skin. She wrapped a piece of tape over my mouth, pushing down hard. “But I have a few surprises prepared.” There was a crash from upstairs. The shifter gave me a bright smile. "She’s early. A mother’s love is such a powerful driver.”

A moment of silence, then an explosion that set the cables swaying. Dust drifted down from the ceiling. I screamed through the gag, through my choking throat, through my tears. The shifter patted my shoulder.

  “My condolences.”

A thud, thud, thud of deliberately heavy feet overhead. The shifter raised an eyebrow.

  “She’s tough, I’ll give her that.” She smiled at me. “Not tough enough.”

A security-bot roared into life on the staircase in the corner. I could see flashes of laser light and screamed again. Then there came a stutter of machinery and a sharp crack. Silence fell. The shifter moved behind me quickly, drawing a knife. She held it to my throat. I froze as the cold metal pressed into my skin, tears trickling unstoppably.

  “Hands empty or I bleed your daughter dry!”

  A tall shadow moved on the stairs. “She ain’t my daughter,” it purred low.

  The knife trembled against my neck. “Deamon,” the shifter whispered.

He stepped into the light, smiling. Black eyes, just like the stories, in a high-planed face. White teeth, wolfish. Muscles rippled under a dark red shirt. One hand reached behind him and produced a curved bone. The shifter cringed into the shelter of the pillar, using me as a shield.

  “How did you find me?”

  “When there’s only one monster left, it kinda stands out.” Deamon spun the bone easily. “Enough foreplay.”

He lunged forward, impossibly fast, impossibly far. I felt the bone blade flash past my ribs, scoring a thin stinging line. There was a choked sound behind me but I barely registered it. Deamon was so close. The heat of his arm burned through my clothes. He pressed his nose against my stomach and inhaled, then smiled up at me with those black eyes. Every muscle in my body locked with terror, the instinctive response of prey. I was dead, and I knew it, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

The shifter thudded to the ground beside my feet. Deamon straightened up into my personal space, smile spreading with the pool of blood. He breathed into my neck. Horror ran across my skin in goosebumps. My mind was filled with darkness, all thoughts shrivelled away. In a final act of despair, I closed my eyes.

There was a sound like a flock of birds.

His heat was abruptly gone. It was enough space to let me think again. I risked a look, heart racing so fast it hurt. Deamon had turned his back to me, shoulders tight with tension. I peered around him. A strange man was standing a few feet away, blue eyes locked on Deamon. His black hair was rumpled and his ancient trenchcoat stained, but he seemed to glow.

  “Hello, Dean.”

Deamon took a halting step towards him, and then another. The bone blade dangled limply from his fingers. His other hand stretched out, touched the man in the centre of his chest. The shock visibly ran through Deamon.

  “Cas?” he said, voice ragged. There was so much pain and longing and grief packed into that syllable. I hadn’t known it was possible to feel like that. It made my throat clench. “I thought you got locked upstairs with the rest when Hannah closed the gates.”

  The man shook his head. “I stayed for you.”

  “For me?” Deamon dropped his hand and gave an unpleasant laugh. “Really? Then how come I ain’t seen you since Sam died?”

  “You know I couldn’t have stopped that.”

  “You coulda tried!”

The roar filled the space. I flinched, whimpering a little, as rage surged past me, deep and bitter as the sea. When I looked back, the strange man was still standing. I didn’t understand how that was possible. He didn’t even look scared. If anything, his expression was sad.

  “It was his choice. He was trying to save you.”

  “By going through the trials again? He died in front of me, Cas, with his blood in my mouth and me strapped to the fucking chair! I prayed to you, dammit, I yelled my head off and you never showed.” Deamon brandished the bone blade under the man’s nose. “And I couldn’t even make a deal to get him back, not with Hell closed and every line disconnected.”

  “He hoped you would not be able to turn again if all the demons were trapped.”

  “Yeah, that didn’t pan out so well.” Deamon began to circle the man, teeth bared. “I don’t need some two-bit hellspawn to jump my bones. I’m home-grown. I’m fucking organic.”

  “I realise that.”

  “So he died for nothing.”

  “He died for love.”

Deamon gave a low growl and swung the blade high. I sucked in breath to scream but the stranger caught his wrist and held it, eyes blazing with blue light.

  “Enough,” he said softly, and the echoes of the word shook the building. More dust drifted down. “Dean, enough. I did not come to fight. I came to save you.”

Deamon laughed again. It grated against my ears, squeezed my chest tight. I struggled to inhale past the sound.

  “Save me?” he said. “I’m the last monster on the planet. It’s mine for the taking. Why would I want to be saved?”

  “If we cleanse you and remove the Mark, I can get you into Heaven. To Sam.”

  Deamon went dangerously still. “If you’re lying to me…”

 “This is what I have been doing all this time. Locating Sam’s soul, restoring it to Heaven, and developing a cure for you. I will save you, Dean, whether you want me to or not.” The stranger gave an odd little smile. “It’s what I do.”

  “Last time you and I disagreed, I beat you bloody, as I recall.”

  “I am stronger now. With the gates of Heaven closed, all the prayers of the world come to me. I am not God - I will not make that mistake again - but I am the closest thing.”

  Deamon grinned and dropped into a fighting stance. “Well, then… bring it on.”

The stranger began to glow. Whiter and whiter until it hurt my eyes, but I couldn’t look away. The shadow of enormous wings stretched up behind him, through the ceiling but still impossibly visible. His eyes blazed blue, fierce and hot. A smell of ozone and flowers filled the room, and the edge of my hearing crackled with lightning. The tears dried on my cheeks as I stared at him. I didn’t know who or what he was, and I didn’t care. I loved him. I couldn’t help but love him.

Deamon growled, a ravenous wolf in winter, and leaped towards the stranger. One hand moved, palm up, and the light caught him in a flare that flung him across the room. He bounced off the wall, staggered, and came running again. He dropped into a slide for the last few feet, bone blade stabbing upwards as he passed. The stranger swung aside easily and grabbed at Deamon’s wrist, wrenching the blade from his hand. Deamon rolled to his feet, black eyes narrowed dangerously. His empty hands reached towards the bone. The stranger tilted his head to one side, considering. Then he ran one finger down the length and it crumbled into dust.

  “NO!” Deamon’s howl was a hurricane of rage and agony.

He hurled himself at his opponent and the two of them fell in a tangle of blows. The light intensified to the point where I couldn’t see what was happening. So I prayed instead. Prayed for the stranger, for not-God, to save me from Deamon. Prayed with every pounding heartbeat, every teardrop, every muscles straining against the cable ties. If Deamon won, I was dead.

When the noises stopped, the light subsided. The stranger was straddling Deamon’s hips, holding his wrists firmly above his head. Both of them had dishevelled hair and bloody faces. Their eyes were locked, black and blue. Slowly, so slowly, the stranger leaned down and pressed his lips to Deamon’s.

  “In sickness and in health,” he said huskily.

  Deamon arched his throat. “Cas…”

  “Come back to me, Dean.”

  “How?”

  The stranger smiled with such sweetness that my knees went weak. “The girl.”

They both turned their heads to look at me. I stared blankly back but fear began to creep in. I hadn’t understood so much of what they’d said - had I been mistaken in praying for the stranger? Maybe I was dead, no matter who won.

  “Her?” Deamon said, not attempting to hide the scorn. “She’s just a human.”

  “She’s a hunter. Her line have been hunters for 730 years, precisely.” The stranger got to his feet and came towards me. “It is no coincidence that she is the one the shapeshifter took, nor that she was taken this Fall.”

  Deamon rolled upright and followed with a frown. “You tipped it off?”

  “Yes.” Those blue eyes met mine, brimming with sincerity. “I am sorry. There was no other way. Do not be afraid.”

He peeled off the tape over my mouth. His skin was so hot it burned. I tried to get a hold on my breathing. Hyperventilation wouldn’t help.

  “What are you?” I whispered.

  “I am an angel. I have watched over your family for generations.”

  “My mom? You saved her from…” I couldn’t look at Deamon.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I needed you here, today.”

  “To save him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” I asked again.

  His eyes narrowed a little. “Because he deserves a better fate than this. And because he is my friend.”

  “Enough with the chick flick crap,” Deamon interrupted. “What can she do?”

  “Cain lived with the Mark for 730 years before he became a demon. She is the last scion of a bloodline of hunters descended from Abel. A line that goes back 730 years. And you have saved a member of every generation.”

  “Really?”

  “I made sure of it.”

  “Damn, Cas, you been playing puppet-master all this time?” Deamon clapped the stranger on the shoulder and I saw his blue eyes flicker with pleasure at the touch. “I’m impressed. So, what? I save her too and that cleans me up?”

  “You have already saved her.”

  “The shifter, right. But she can't get me into Heaven, Cas. They closed the door a while back, remember?”

   "I have the power to storm the gates and hold them open long enough for you to enter."

   "And you," Deamon said fiercely. "I ain't leaving you behind." The stranger smiled but did not reply. "Okay, so how do we do this?"

  The stranger looked at me again. “You need her forgiveness.”

  “That’s it? Just ‘we’re square, no harm, no foul’?”

  “‘ _For he has rescued us from the dominion of darkness, he in whom we have redemption we will offer the forgiveness of sins_.’ Colossians.” The stranger was still looking at me. I could feel his eyes inside my head, the pressure of his focus. “Forgive him, in your name and the name of your ancestor Abel.”

I could feel Deamon watching me. The predator’s gaze weighed heavily on my vulnerable arteries. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He was death hovering at my shoulder, watching me with eyes as black as sin, with eyes that had defined the colour of sin. He was the monster all other monsters feared, the one that scared every other evil thing that haunted the night. He had the blood of thousands soaked into his skin. He would have killed me. Still might. How could I forgive him?

The click of a gun nearby was loud in my panicking silence. Deamon and the stranger turned in one smooth movement, shoulders bunching. My mom stepped out from behind the other pillar, rifle pointing downwards.

  “Mom!” I gasped, wrenching at my bound wrists. She held up her free hand, silencing me.

  “I forgive you,” she told Deamon. “You saved my daughter. Whatever else you’ve done, you did that. I forgive you.”

  “It must be the girl,” the stranger said. “The last hunter.”

  “She’s not a hunter,” Mom said. “The world don’t need ‘em any more.”

  “Cas…” Deamon croaked.

The stranger spun and caught him as he collapsed. He began to shake violently. Mom limped hurriedly over to me and cut the cable tie. She grabbed my hand and dragged me back, away from where the two of them were wrapped together. The stranger pressed a firm palm to Deamon’s forehead and light began to build again.

  “Come back to me, Dean,” he commanded. “Come back to yourself.”

  “Mom?” I whispered.

  “Shh, baby.” She pushed me behind her and leveled the rifle again. “Head for the door, quiet as you can.”

We backed away. The light built and built until we were running from it, blind and disoriented. We burst through the door and fell onto the sidewalk as pure whiteness blazed from every window, between every brick, a second sun. Mom covered my head with her body and I squeezed my eyes shut but I could still see it. The world was light, every sense, every thought invaded by it. It was the beginning and the end of me.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. I was lying in the dirt, Mom’s weight across my shoulders and the rifle digging into my side. I could hear her ragged breathing and smell leaf mould. I could think. We sat up stiffly and looked at the building. The broken glass in the windows had gone, turned to dust. Inside was dim and silent. Mom climbed to her feet.

  “Stay here.”

  “No way.”

I followed her in, moving as quietly as possible. There were three bodies on the floor. One was the shifter, her skin twisted and blackened as if by fire. One was the stranger, lying at the centre of huge wings outlined in soot and shadow on the floor. And one was Deamon, holding the stranger’s hand tightly. There was a smile on his face and his eyes were open.

His green eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving kudos! It makes writers happy. :-)


End file.
